


Door Bells & Raspberry Jam Lipstick

by queenvernage



Category: Kamen Rider Build
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/F, Fantasizing, Femslash February 2020, Pining, Post-Kamen Rider Build, and she has the biggest lesbian crush on a pretty career woman, gay disaster misora isurugi, misora is barista-ing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenvernage/pseuds/queenvernage
Summary: Misora wishes her new favorite customer would come, because seeing her in real-life is better than fantasizing about all the ways she wants to sweep this woman off her feet.The New Build World. Misora works at the cafe. Sawa is a journalist with a routine.
Relationships: Isurugi Misora/Takigawa Sawa
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Door Bells & Raspberry Jam Lipstick

**Author's Note:**

> for femslash february 2020. as a disaster bi who would really like to talk to pretty girls one day... i hereby project myself onto this fic.

The breath caught in Misora’s throat when the bell above the door rang, but she exhaled with disappointment when she saw it was just Aikawa and Mihara. No doubt the other half the little gang that came in sometimes after the farmers market on Saturdays would be joining them in no time. She greeted them half heartedly and started brewing another pot of dark roast in anticipation.

Aikawa and Mihara were alright customers, as far as customers went, she supposed. They weren’t exactly regulars, but came around enough that Misora knew their names, and tipped well enough that she didn’t mind how loudly their friends could be. But, she was disappointed nevertheless because they were not who she was hoping for when she heard the door bells jingling.

Misora didn’t know her name yet, but the person she really wanted to see coming through the door was a tall, glamorous and elegant woman with the prettiest smile Misora had ever seen. 

This woman had been in everyday the last week at 4:45 p.m. sharp, ordering a foamy caramel macchiato and a croissant with raspberry jam. Misora had spent the past week happily watching this beautiful person eating that croissant, fascinated by the way it never smudged her perfect berry colored lipstick, mesmerized by the way she reapplied the color anyway in a tiny gold hand mirror before leaving.

It was now 4:49, and there was no sign of the woman, much to Misora’s continued disappointment, but she supposed it made sense. It was Saturday. This woman was clearly a career woman. Her tailored blouses and jewel toned document bags told her that much, at least. 

She probably came in to get a bite to eat before catching the train home, maybe to an apartment where she lived with some tall, handsome, older man, who was generally caring, but distant, to the point where the pretty career lady could use the gentle advice of a quirky, if childish-looking barista. Misora fantasized about getting close with her, and after weeks of their flirting back and forth, finally convincing this woman to leave that imaginary older man and the woman holding her neck as they kissed.

Or maybe-- hopefully, Misora’s one-tracked mind unhelpfully supplied-- the woman had just broken things off with her college girlfriend, who had been a little hard around the edges, and didn’t fully appreciate the effort that the pretty lady put into keeping their romance alive. Misora thought of bottles of wine that the now-ex-girlfriend would have drank alone out of plastic cups, and the pretty woman coming home to find that the night she’d planned for them together had gone to waste again. Misora wondered if one day, this woman would walk in, wearing paint splattered overalls, and her hair tied up, huffing to explain that she was moving into a new apartment, closer to work, now that things were over with the ex. Misora, being the friendly and interested person she was (when it came to pretty girls) would offer to help her move… and maybe break in the new bed?

“Misora, the coffee is going to get bitter if you use fully boiling water, you know,” Her father’s familiar voice cut through Misora’s fantasy and she realized that the water was in fact way too hot. Snapping back into work mode, she shook the thoughts of the career lady and focused on her job.

That lasted all of 10 minutes, until the door bells rang again, and there she was… In the perfectly tanned flesh.

“Hello!” The woman called, adjusting the deep green bag over her shoulder. She was wearing a navy and white pinstripe blouse, tucked into a mustard a-line skirt that showed off the calves that Misora was equal parts jealous of and desperate to caress.

She gave Misora that pretty smile as she sat at the bar. Misora tried to return it, but wasn’t fully able to tell if she was smiling too much or too little, just in awe of the woman in front of her and the way her bangs fell against her forehead.

“You’re late.”

“Excuse me?” Misora didn’t realize she had said anything aloud until this woman gave her a confused look.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-- It’s just-- I mean,” Misora stuttered as she fussed with tucking her hair behind her ears. The woman giggled in response, and the sound of that laugh calmed Misora enough to catch her breath. “You’ve been here at such a consistent time, these past few days.”

“I’m a creature of habit, I suppose,” The woman smiled. “I would have been here around the same time but I was interviewing the Prime Minister’s aide, his son, and it went late.”

“Interviewing?”

“Oh, I’m a journalist!” She reached into that green leather bag and extended a business card for Misora to take. It identified her as Takigawa Sawa, a political correspondent for a major newspaper nearby.

“I started this week,” Sawa explained, a proud gleam in her eye. “I was just freelance before, but I’m finally getting somewhere with my career. I’ll probably be here frequently from now on because of how close this is to the paper, so please look after me.”

“Gladly,” Misora muttered, finding it now impossible to look at Sawa’s face. It was so much more intimidating knowing exactly how out of Misora’s league she was.

“I’m sorry, what was your name?” Sawa asked, her brown eyes sparkling as they searched for a nametag. Misora wasn’t wearing one, but was suddenly quiet self-conscious about her body and the fact that the most elegant journalist in the world was currently looking at it. 

“Mii-Misora,” She stuttered. “I’m Isurugi Misora. This is my family’s cafe.”

“You’re cute, Miitan,” Sawa smiled, and Misora went beet red.

“Would you like the usual, Ms. Takigawa?”

“Just Sawa is fine, I’m not that much older than you, I’m sure.”

“Then, the usual… Sawa?”

“It’s cute that you know my usual, too,” Sawa gushed, and Misora vacantly thought that she could be used to Sawa calling her cute. Maybe she was the type who liked to shower the people she was attracted to with praise, the type who would gently coo at Misora when they woke up together and Misora’s hair was all crazy and out of place. That idea was almost too much for her small gay heart to handle, so Misora forced it aside.

“The usual would be lovely, Miitan,” Sawa added, and although she’d never really cared for that endearment, she thought she’d let Sawa call her that forever.

Misora watched again in fascination and borderline-lust at the rotation of sips, dainty chews and dabbing at the corner of lips that Sawa went through while shuffling through what Misora could now guess were interview notes, until finally the gold hand mirror came out and her lipstick tube was in hand.

This time, Misora’s confidence was enough to try to speak to her again before she left, and although she wasn’t sure what she was going to say, she hoped it would be something cool, something to subtly hint at her attraction, while still being friendly enough to play off if Sawa really was seeing some older man or some tomboyish lady.

What came out though, was not what she was hoping for. 

“That lipstick makes your lips look really nice, Sawa.”

Fuck. Too gay. Coming on too strong. Why’d she have to bring up lips? Of course now Sawa was going to know that-- 

“You think so?” Sawa answered, looking at the tube in hand with a smirk. “Can I have a napkin, real quick?”

Misora handed her one, glad to have a reason to not talk about Sawa’s lipstick anymore. When Sawa received it, she placed it on the bar in front of her and twisted up the tube of lipstick once more before turning it over to write. Misora choked on air when she realized what the numbers Sawa was writing must have meant.

“You could have asked for a pen,” Misora forced out from behind her blush.

“Thought this was a good way to keep you thinking about me until I see you Monday,” Sawa winked before kissing the napkin, leaving the perfect imprint of her perfect lips on the paper. She slid it across the bar, stood up and put her bag over her shoulder. “I mean it, you’re cute, Miitan. That’s my personal phone number. Use it whenever.”

As the door bells rang behind Sawa’s leaving form, Misora realized that she had been effectively frozen in place.

There was always the possibility she was reading this all wrong, but it seemed like she had just been invited to ask the most gorgeous woman in the world on a date… 

And she didn’t know where she’d find the strength in that tiny gay heart of hers to do it, but by god, she was going to have to, because there was too much she needed to know about Sawa to not.


End file.
